


chamomile tea with a splash of sunshine

by Yersina



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Magic, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22636285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yersina/pseuds/Yersina
Summary: Han Jisung is magic.When Minho first met Jisung, this meant crescent eyes curved upwards in a smile, round cheeks and a bright laugh. It meant soft hair and softer sweaters, pulled over fingers even though it wasn't that cold out yet. It meant quick repartee and heart beating fast in his chest, cheeks flushed with excitement or nervousness or—Magic was Jisung and falling and flying all at once.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 14
Kudos: 188





	chamomile tea with a splash of sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> i've been sitting on this one for m o n t h s and i need it out of my wips

“Hyung hyung hyung,” Jisung chants as he runs around the apartment, turning off all the lights. Minho looks up from where he’s sprawled out over the couch, face now only illuminated by his phone’s screen and the city lights filtering in through the window. “Hyuuuuung.”

“Dongsaeng dongsaeng dongsaeng,” Minho replies, smirking at the unimpressed look Jisung throws his way. He draws up his knees when Jisung joins him, turning off his phone and squinting at Jisung’s shadowy features in the darkness of their living room. “What? I thought we were inventing a new form of language. Come on, keep going, I want to see if I can guess what you’re saying.”

_“Hyuuuuuuuung.”_

“Dongsaeeeeeeeeng.”

Jisung aborts his attempt to punch Minho on the shoulder, instead just groaning and throwing his head over the back of the couch dramatically. “You know what, I was going to be nice and show you something cool, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“Okay,” Minho replies casually, pulling out his phone again. “Can you turn the lights back on again, then?” 

“I hate you,” Jisung mutters sullenly, slumping over to Minho’s side of the couch and draping himself over Minho’s legs. “I came back early from the festival and everything for you.” The pout is audible in his voice and Minho can feel an involuntary smile pull at the corners of his lips.

“Okay, okay.” He does his best not to jostle Jisung as he leans over to put his phone on their coffee table so he can give Jisung his full attention. “Impress me.” 

It’s not so dark in the room that he can’t see the way Jisung’s eyes shine with the reflected light of night life, the way his expression melts from exasperation to excitement. “Wait, hold on, it’s still not dark enough,” Jisung blurts, scrambling up from the couch so he can draw their curtains and plunge them into darkness. 

“What, for my murder?” Minho glances in the direction of the kitchen. The only lights in their apartment are the glowing numbers on the microwave and stove in their kitchen, now. _12:13_ and _12:15,_ they read in glowing font. He’s been meaning to fix that. “I think it’ll be easier to kill me if you can see where you stick the knife, you know. If I bleed all over the place because you couldn’t stab me in the heart like a good murderer, I’m not helping you clean up.”

The sound of Jisung’s laughter floats out from the darkness, mellow and round. “Nah, I wouldn’t kill you in our own home. How suspicious would that be? No, I’m waiting for the most opportune moment…” he trails off, probably hoping to sound ominous, but Minho giggles at the sound of shuffling feet, followed immediately by a thud as Jisung presumably walks straight into their coffee table. “Ow.”

“Wow, so impressive,” Minho exclaims brightly, applauding. “10 out of 10, standing ovation. Where did you learn such grace, Han Jisung-ssi?” 

“You’re such a jerk.” Any true resentment that Jisung could’ve fit into the insult is cushioned by Jisung finally bumping into the couch and falling into Minho’s lap. Minho automatically shifts to accommodate him, steadying him by the hips as Jisung swings a leg over his thighs so that he’s comfortably straddling Minho’s lap. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Minho blinks up into the abyss where he knows Jisung’s face has to be, even if he can’t make out anything more than a thin strip of not-black that _might_ be a stripe on Jisung’s shirt. “You know, mankind invented electricity so that we don’t have to be kicking our shins into tables in the dark.”

“I know,” Jisung whines, sliding a hand curiously up Minho’s side until he can pinch him on the neck. Minho inches his hand up until he can squeeze Jisung’s side in retaliation and grins satisfactorily when Jisung squirms uncomfortably. “No tickling,” Jisung orders sternly, pushing Minho’s hand away and twitching warily when Minho settles it back onto his hip. “This is serious business.”

“Sure it is,” Minho says agreeably. His eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness now, straining to see with the bare light that seeps in through the cracks between their curtains. A few strands of Jisung’s hair glint dully in the light, and Minho’s sure that if he reached up and placed his thumb on that curve slightly above his eye level, he could trace Jisung’s cheekbone. It glitters faintly in the darkness with the golden shimmer that Jisung didn’t bother to wipe off after coming back. “I can think of a lot of serious things we can do in the dark.”

“Oh my god,” Jisung hisses, pushing at Minho’s shoulder. “Not that kind of business.” 

“You sure?” Minho waggles his eyebrows even though he knows Jisung can’t see it, but the harder push against his shoulder tells him that Jisung doesn’t need to see to know what Minho’s doing. 

_“Yes.”_

“You’ve got a lot to live up to, then.” Minho’s pretty sure he just felt Jisung roll his eyes and he’s about to make another comment when he starts at the feeling of Jisung grabbing his left wrist and moving his arm so that their hands can rest in Jisung’s lap, fingers entwined. “This sure feels like we’re moving into the territory of that kind of business.”

“Shut up, this helps me concentrate,” Jisung murmurs, squeezing Minho’s hand in warning.

Minho takes the hint and stays quiet, trying not to feel overly aware of everywhere they’re touching. His legs are starting to go slightly numb from Jisung’s weight, and any second now, they’re going to start tingling with the precursor to the pins and needles of any body part falling asleep, but he doesn’t quite have the heart to tell Jisung to move. Jisung’s body heat is somehow pleasantly warm even in summer heat, and the weight against his legs is reassuring. 

He instead focuses on the feeling of Jisung’s cooler palm against his own, shifting his thumb slightly to rub against the side of Jisung’s fingers soothingly, and he feels Jisung’s hand tighten in response. “Stop that, you’re distracting me,” Jisung whispers.

“Sorry.” Minho doesn’t stop though, changing their hand hold so he can play with Jisung’s fingers by touch while Jisung does whatever it is that he’s doing. 

Only a few moments pass before Jisung is tugging his hand out of Minho’s, resting it instead against Minho’s eyes. “Hate to break it to you, but it’s pitch black in here,” Minho says, fluttering his eyelashes against Jisung’s hand just to be annoying. “I can’t see anything even without the hand.”

“Just give me a moment.” 

Minho frowns at the strained tone of Jisung’s voice. “Are you okay?”

“Just peachy,” Jisung replies dryly, which is more reassuring than it should be. 

Minho settles back into the couch, wondering if Jisung can feel Minho’s breath on the edge of his thumb where it covers his nose, if it feels as stark to him as Jisung’s fingerprints against his skin are. “Any time now would be great.”

“Remind me to never get you a present ever again.” Jisung finally shifts his hand away from Minho’s eyes, moving it so that it rests against Minho’s neck instead, thumb tickling his earlobe. Minho keeps his eyes obediently closed, keenly aware of the cool press of Jisung’s fingertips against his skin. “You can open your eyes now.” 

Minho inhales sharply once he inches them open, eyes darting around the room at the dozen or so glowing balls of light slowly drifting through their living room. “What—” his voice cracks as one meanders its way over to him, stopping a foot away as if to say hi. It’s only about the size of a ping pong ball and glows a soft white that doesn’t hurt his eyes to look at, which he’s thankful for because he’s not sure he could ever look away. 

He slowly reaches out and pokes it, shivering when it sends a tingle of warmth down his spine that feels oddly familiar. It rocks back and forth gently from the force of the touch and he watches in wonder as it floats closer to his head. They remind him of the large fireflies he’d chased around the fields as a child, running and laughing until he didn’t even have the energy to swing his net around anymore. 

“It’s my magic.” Minho nearly gives himself whiplash looking back at Jisung. His heart catches in his throat at the way Jisung looks in the dim light, skin a burnished bronze to match the whorls of dark hair against his forehead. His eyes glitter with the pinpricks of light floating around the room and Minho dizzily thinks that somehow Jisung has managed to trap the night sky in his irises. 

“Your magic?” Minho echoes weakly. He wishes he could take a picture of this moment so he could keep it forever, but somehow he knows that nothing could ever compare to sitting there in that moment and seeing a halo of light backlighting Jisung.

Jisung reaches out and plucks the ball of light from the air, tossing it between his hands with a hum. “Today is Beltane, you know.” Minho did _not_ know, but he stays silent, watching the way Jisung’s knuckles flicker in and out of focus with the changing light. “Other than during midsummer, this is as strong as my magic is going to get, and I even attended the first power gathering ritual of the festival.” He closes his fingers around the ball of light, smothering it, but when he uncurls them, it winks back into existence, like a strange game of peekaboo. “It’s kind of lame—” 

“It’s beautiful,” Minho blurts. He doesn’t know how to express to Jisung the overwhelming fondness that wells beneath his chest at the knowledge that this whole spectacle was meant for _him,_ for Minho specifically; the pitter-patter of his heart in his chest at the way Jisung looks at him, startled by his outburst; the childish wonder that consumes him at every new thing that Jisung has managed to show him. “It’s always beautiful.”

The light of the sphere of magic between them makes it hard to make out Jisung’s face, but Minho thinks he sees the tell-tale signs of a dark blush rising to his cheeks. “You’re only saying that because you’ve never seen what Hyunjin can do on a beach—”

“I don’t need to,” Minho interrupts, reaching up so he can clasp the sides of Jisung’s face and force him to see exactly what Minho means. “What you do is beautiful, Jisung, because it’s _you.”_

The way that Jisung looks back at him, face slack in surprise and eyes filled with stars, makes Minho feel more like magic than the warmth of the light could ever give him. 

☼

Han Jisung is magic.

When Minho first met Jisung, this meant crescent eyes curved upwards in a smile, round cheeks and a bright laugh. It meant soft hair and softer sweaters, pulled over fingers even though it wasn't that cold out yet. It meant quick repartee and heart beating fast in his chest, cheeks flushed with excitement or nervousness or— 

Magic meant falling hard and fast with no end in sight, stomach swooping and heart singing, something warm and fond and inescapable thumping behind his ribcage every time he saw another grin or heard another chuckle.

Magic was mundane and yet special, a strange new experience tied into something familiar, an adventure amidst an everyday monotony. 

Magic was Jisung and falling and flying all at once.

☼

Minho catches Jisung murmuring to his cup of tea one morning. 

He awakens to Jisung’s alarm and slowly blinks into awareness as Jisung fumbles to turn his alarm off and trudges his way out their dorm room with his toothbrush. Thankfully, Jisung’s first class is only half an hour before Minho’s, but that’s still half an hour of lost sleep. Minho feels it in the tacky stickiness gluing his eyes together and the leadenness in his limbs, but he supposes that’s what he gets for sleeping at three in the morning. 

Burrowing further into his covers with a half-hearted grumble, he pulls them up around his shoulders and tries his very best to pretend he’s a turtle retreating into its shell. The heat in their room is set to high because neither he nor Jisung can stand the cold, but just the thought of having to brave the winter cold to get to class makes him shiver with dread. 

He floats in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness for a few minutes until the door opens with a quiet click and Jisung comes back into the room. Minho slits his eyes open and his stomach immediately does a weightless twist because Jisung has on his oversized pink jacket, which means that he’s probably also wearing his glasses today, and while both of those elements alone are enough to make his heart sigh, having them in combination is as close to lethal as Han Jisung is capable of being. The messy hair, the sweater paws, the round glasses—Jisung’s ability to look utterly flawless so soon after waking up will give Minho heart palpitations one day, and he may just end up keeling over and dying from the cuteness. 

He quietly observes as Jisung stops in front of his closet’s mirror, tentatively fluffing his flyaway hair, before clearly deciding that any sort of styling wasn’t worth it. Instead, he tosses his pajamas onto his bed and moves over to their mini-fridge, grabbing their electric kettle off the top and bustling out the door, presumably to fill it with water.

Minho takes this chance to get out of bed, careful not to bang his knee against the ladder of his bed for the third time that week and add to his patchwork of bruises. Between the two of them, Minho had been the only one who had bothered to loft his bed, and there were days when it wasn’t at all worth the trouble it’d been, but Minho enjoys the aesthetic of being a cat lounging in a high place too much to regret it. 

He collapses into his desk chair, too lazy to turn on any of the lights. It doesn’t feel worth it to change out of his pajamas if he’s not going to leave the room for at least another half hour, but it also seems especially tragic if he got out of bed only to lounge around in his pajamas. 

He’s just worked up the will to put on socks when the door clicks open again and Jisung shuffles in, careful not to spill any of the water. Minho watches with amusement as he walks right past Minho’s desk without any acknowledgement, too preoccupied with the kettle to notice his presence. Jisung plugs it in and flicks it on as soon as he gets it back on top of the refrigerator, giving a tiny nod of satisfaction at a job well done. The corner of Minho's lips curl up involuntarily. There's something just inescapably _adorable_ about Jisung at 8:30 in the morning.

While Jisung waits for the water to boil, he steps over to his desk, gathering all of his class materials neatly only to shove it into his backpack haphazardly. He then wanders back over to his dresser and slides open a drawer, pulling out a small tin can decorated only by a strip of white tape with handwriting too small for Minho to read against the light from the window. Minho can feel the confusion that twists his face but it quickly clears when Jisung opens the lid and deposits a couple of tiny dried flower heads into his thermos. He brings it with him over to the fridge, flicking off the kettle when it’s still more noise than substance and pouring in the hot water. 

It’s oddly charming, getting to watch Jisung go through his morning routine. He would’ve expected that it’d be unsettlingly quiet, but it’s soothing to watch Jisung’s methodical movements. 

That is, until Jisung starts talking. 

“I know it’s been a while, but come on, I know you can do it,” Minho hears him murmuring into the thermos, clearly doing his best to be as quiet as possible. “I'm really tired ’cause midterms are coming up and I actually really like this class and I want to do well, so if you could just be a little stronger for me today, that’d be amazing.” 

Minho knows that Jisung is a little eccentric, to say the least. He’d asked to borrow one of Minho’s sweaters within their first week of meeting each other and hadn’t blinked an eye when Minho had sleepily asked to sleep in Jisung’s bed when he came back too late from dance practice one day and couldn’t be bothered to climb up onto his own. It’s not even the first time Minho has heard Jisung talk to himself—Jisung’s as guilty of musing to himself while doing homework as Minho is of talking in his sleep.

This is, however, the first time Minho has ever heard him _encouraging his tea._

His vantage point means that he can’t quite see the tea itself, but it’s more than enough to witness the golden glow that lights up the angles of Jisung’s face in a way that has nothing to do with morning light. 

_Huh,_ he thinks blankly. Apparently, he slept way later than he thought he did, if he’s started hallucinating.

Jisung blows once into his thermos, fogging up his glasses immediately, and takes a sip as the condensation fades from the lenses. It evaporates right as Jisung looks up and locks eyes with Minho across the room.

“Jeez, I'm not that scary-looking in the morning, am I?” Minho jokes wryly as Jisung inhales his mouthful of tea and promptly attempts to hack it back up. 

“How long have you been sitting there?” Jisung wheezes, grabbing a tissue to dab at the tea now staining his sleeve. 

“How long do you want me to have been sitting here?” Minho replies cryptically, enjoying the way Jisung’s eyes get comically wide. Jisung has always had a very expressive face, but the level of sheer panic in his expression crosses the border from ‘that’s kind of suspicious’ into ‘Han Jisung is hiding something that Lee Minho absolutely needs to know right now’. 

Jisung laughs nervously, clutching the thermos between his hands. “Is that a trick question? I was just surprised, since your class isn’t for another hour. I didn’t wake you up, did I? This explains why you’ve never woken me up while getting ready for class in the mornings—you’re so quiet. Sometimes you’re so quiet, I forget that I'm not the only one in the room,” Jisung rambles on. Minho usually enjoys Jisung’s long tangents, more entertained by Jisung’s loud movements than the actual content, but he recognizes Jisung’s ‘talk about literally anything other than the thing I don’t want Minho-hyung to know about’ mode, so he tunes him out through ease of practice. 

“I didn’t know you drink tea,” Minho comments once Jisung stops to take a breath. “You always get coffee when we go out.”

Jisung pulls up short. “Oh, yeah. It’s kind of a habit, I guess. My mom makes her own tea, so it’s what we’ve always had at home. She’s always been really bad at making coffee.” 

Minho makes a sound of understanding and huffs out a laugh. “Maybe you could share some of that homemade tea with me today. It sounds more soothing than coffee.” He means for it to be dismissive, but he realizes his mistake when Jisung frowns at him in concern.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he tries again, but now Jisung is committed to this line of conversation. 

“Come on, hyung, tell me,” he whines, setting his thermos down and coming closer. Minho strangely gets the impression that he’s being stalked by a particularly cuddly predator. “What are roommates for, right?”

“Not letting me die of touch starvation,” Minho replies quickly. He’s up out of his chair when Jisung takes his next step. “Why do I feel like you’re trying to corner me?”

“I have no idea,” Jisung replies innocently. The next step he takes feels oddly threatening. “Come on, hyung, tell Jisungie what’s getting you down.”

“I've never heard a more unattractive sentence in my life.”

Jisung pouts at him. “Hyung.”

Minho frowns back. “Jisung.”

“Okay, hard way it is, then.” Minho’s just about to ask what the hard way is when Jisung frames his face cutely and squeaks out, in the most awful, absurd voice, “Minho-hyung should tell Jisungie _alllll_ of his troubles so that way no one is sad, okay?”

Minho feels completely justified in leaping at Jisung and attempting to choke him to death before any more of his aegyo can be weaponized. “Nightmares for the next week!” he hollers, pinching the delicate skin of Jisung’s neck when he dares to lick the hand Minho has covering his mouth. “An absolute atrocity!”

Jisung gasps, the inhale a freezing gust against the palm of Minho’s hand. “Are you calling my face an atrocity now?!” This evidently warrants retaliation in the form of digging his fingers into Minho’s sides, which is when Jisung finds out that Minho is, to put it mildly, horrifically ticklish.

Both of them collapse in a heap on the ground, giggling too much to keep themselves upright. “Seriously though, hyung, what’s up?” Jisung’s eyes are still shining from laughter and his genuine, open curiosity is almost painful. 

Almost.

“I'll tell you if you tell me why you were talking to your tea,” Minho retorts, raising an eyebrow, but Jisung’s expression doesn’t budge.

“Minho-hyung, I just don’t want you to be suffering quietly if you don’t have to be, okay?” Minho has to avert his gaze from how _earnest_ Jisung looks. It feels unreal to him, sometimes, how caring Jisung manages to be. The warmth that he radiates almost burns and it mingles with the twinge of guilt that makes itself known beneath Minho’s breastbone. 

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Minho says to the floor. “I was just stuck in that zone of procrastination and stress again. I couldn’t sleep last night but I couldn’t get any work done either.”

Jisung makes a noise of understanding that borders on distressed and doesn’t hesitate to go in for a hug, even with the awkwardness of being tangled up on the ground. It’s quick and light, meant to be more reassurance than true comfort, but Minho closes his eyes and enjoys it while it lasts. “That’s the _worst,”_ he says vehemently, pulling back.

Minho just shrugs uncomfortably. It’s a habit that he’s been dealing with since middle school and he hadn’t realized that he’s never slipped in front of Jisung before. “It’s annoying while it lasts, but it’s not a big deal.”

“No, seriously, I hate it when that happens to me.” Jisung chews on his lip nervously, visibly debating something. “Wait here,” he orders hastily.

Minho watches, baffled, as Jisung clambers up and darts over to his dresser and retrieves the thermos of tea. “Here.” He presents it to Minho with the dignity of someone presenting a medal of honor. 

Minho just stares at the cup for a few beats before turning his incredulous stare on Jisung. “I spill my deepest, darkest secrets to you, and you give me a cup of tea with your backwash in it?” 

“I try to do something nice,” Jisung complains, rolling his eyes. He sits back down on the floor, still presenting the thermos to Minho. “It’s chamomile! It’s well-known for its calming properties, and a lot of people use it to help them sleep.”

“I'm not a huge fan of herbal tea,” Minho protests weakly, but his fingers are already brushing against Jisung’s as he takes the thermos from him. The surface of the tea scintillates merrily as it slowly rocks back and forth, but it shines the silver-white of their overhead light, not the gold that Minho saw earlier. 

“You’ll like this one, trust me.” Minho reflexively doubts Jisung’s cocky smile, but then he continues, “And if you don’t trust me, trust my mom!”

“Oh, well, if you put it like that,” Minho says, miming chugging the tea. He ducks Jisung’s fist with a giggle, hissing when a few drops of water spill onto his hand. 

Jisung gets up with a haughty sniff. “I don’t have to put up with this verbal abuse. I'm going to class.” He sidesteps Minho and grabs his backpack. “At least my professors won’t attack my tea-making abilities.” 

“You’re always late and you never pay attention anyway,” Minho calls as Jisung breezes past him like a whirlwind. Jisung just scrunches up his nose and sticks his tongue out at Minho and in the next second, he’s out the door with a wave before Minho can say anything else. 

Minho waves back at the closed door before moving back to his desk chair and setting the thermos on his table. The tea is perfectly innocent, really, he tries to convince himself. Just because Jisung was being weird and talking to it and he saw it shine gold for a split second—maybe he’s just too tired and imagining things. Maybe Jisung’s nervousness afterwards and panicked rambling were just side effects of a long night, just like Minho’s. 

“Why do you make me so wary?” he asks the tea. “You’re just plant juice. You can’t hurt me.” More importantly, Minho trusts Jisung and Jisung wouldn’t do anything to hurt him. Probably. “Great, now _I'm_ talking to you too.”

He takes a hesitant sip and immediately feels warmth rush through him. The sensation is so surprising, Minho nearly drops the thermos, scrambling to right it with numb fingers. He can almost trace the path that the tea took through his body with the way it leaves a golden glow in its wake, trailing heat all the way into his stomach and spreading across his chest. It feels like being hugged from the inside out, like sunshine on a fall day, like waking up slowly on the weekend. Like seeing Jisung smile. 

He takes another, longer sip before grabbing his phone.

 _squirrel boi_  
 **Today** 9:18AM

did you drug me  
what is this  
why do i feel so good

you drank the tea!!  
i told you you’d like it  
i'm MAGIC

ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ  
the dining hall tea is shit btw  
miss me with that bagged stuff

did you really just spend an entire minute looking for that emoji  
everything in the dining hall is shit  
my compliments to your mom though this tea is Amazing

...maybe  
hey!!! i was the one who brewed the tea!!!  
thank ME

hm  
no

and after i gave you MY tea too i am BETRAYED  
i put up with shitty dining hall tea for YOU

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 

i regret ever teaching you how kaomojis work

class is starting wish me luck

isn’t this the lecture with that guy who talks in a whisper

yes

...good luck  
try not to fail, i still need a roommate next year

ㅠㅠ i'm trying, trust me

Minho laughs and sets his phone aside, going back to his sunshine-in-a-cup that inexplicably reminds him of Jisung.

☼

Minho wakes up in a warm darkness, back aching with the familiar twinge he knows comes from sleeping on the couch for a night. He winces at the uncomfortable crick in his neck as he shifts, arms conspicuously empty. Flopping over onto his stomach, he rubs irritably at his eyes before prying them open, trying in vain to force the sleep out of them.

Sure enough, Jisung is sprawled out on the ground, curled up in a way that tells Minho he woke up when he fell off but was too lazy to go back to his room. Minho dangles an arm off the edge of the couch, just close enough to Jisung to maybe tickle the tiny hairs on his arm as he swings it idly through the air.

Jisung looks strikingly young in the dim light filtering in through their blackout curtains, put there after too many times being awakened rudely from sleep after a late night binging movies or Netflix shows. He always gives his full energy to whatever it is that he’s doing, whether it be telling a hilarious story to their friends at a diner or tearing his hair out in frustration over his homework. Being able to see him lying there peacefully, chest moving slowly up and down in even intervals and skin practically glowing in the morning light, puts Minho’s mind at ease in a way little else does. 

The golden shimmer painting his skin from the festival partially smeared away sometime between the previous night and the morning, leaving streaks across his cheeks and up his jawline, littering the skin of his face like tiny golden scales that catch the little light in the living room. It makes him look like he’s glowing from the inside, magic peeping through his skin like dandelions on the sidewalk. 

Minho spends a few moments just lying there, blinking slowly at Jisung’s sleeping form before he sighs and reaches for the coffee table. Straining to reach over the gap without falling onto Jisung, Minho grabs his phone, scrolling to see if he missed any messages.

 _Hwang Hyunjin_  
 **Today** 1:49AM

hey seungmin and i just got back from the festival  
lmk how jisung’s doing

i know it was his first time doing a ritual in a while  
he might’ve been a bit overwhelmed

 **Today** 3:12AM

okay asshole just lmk if you’re alive

if jisung killed you w magic i want your cats

Minho snorts. Hyunjin isn’t even getting his cats over his dead body. Like hell is he going to let a dog person have his precious kitties. 

**Today** 10:19AM

hah, like i’m ever giving up my cats  
in the event of my death, any future owners will be personally vetted by my ghost  
and they’re sure as hell not going to someone whose pet could potentially eat them

jisung is fine  
he’s passed out on the floor rn

He tosses his phone onto the couch next to him and groans quietly before forcing himself up. Tiptoeing around Jisung’s prone form, he pads over to the bathroom so he can take a shower and brush his teeth and not think about how Jisung’s hair catches the light and how Minho wants to run his fingers through it to find out if it’s as soft as it looks. 

By the time he comes back to the living room, Jisung is still asleep at the foot of the couch, breathing softly. He glances curiously at the last remaining stray ball of light, floating shyly at the corner of the couch. Most of them had gradually winked out of existence after Jisung had fallen asleep sometime around their second movie, with one disappearing every few minutes like a countdown. Minho hadn’t been able to sleep with them lighting up the room, instead poking one every time it came close to his face, shuddering when they gave him the same warmth that Jisung’s body pressed against his own did. 

He crouches down, wondering if he could coax it to him like a stray cat, but to his surprise, it comes over to him easily enough, sliding agreeably into the palm of his hand. The kind of warmth it gives off now is more reminiscent of a cup of warm cocoa on a winter day than the all-encompassing heat it had last night and he keeps it protectively in his cupped hand as he carefully maneuvers back onto the couch to check his messages.

_Hwang Hyunjin_

i.  
hate.  
you.  
it’s too fucking early for this.

and whatever, kkami’s worth way more than your stupid cats anyway  
also he’s like, the same size as them  
idk how he’d eat them  
your cats are vicious

...why is he on the floor

nah that’s just dori  
doongie’s a sweetheart  
the idiot rolled off the couch

He hesitates for a moment before snapping a picture of the light still resting above the curve of his fingers.

[image sent]  
wtf am i supposed to do with this

oh!  
it’s been forever since sungie did that  
it’s just excess energy  
it’ll go away

He cautiously lowers it onto the arm of the couch, staring as it balances itself on the rounded surface. Partially-sentient balls of magic are a little too much to deal with at 10:30 in the morning.

you sure?

…  
well no.  
but once jisung wakes up, he’ll know what to do

helpful thank you

i live to serve

Minho snorts and sets his phone on the end table. Lying down on his stomach, he pillows his head on his arms as he studies Jisung curiously. There’s something almost ethereal about the way Jisung lies there, as if he’s attracting all the light in the room to him. For all Minho knows, that’s exactly what he’s doing.

Extending a hand, he sinks a finger into a cheek and squishes it, restraining a giggle as the shimmer on his cheeks reflects the morning light enthusiastically. “Hey.” Jisung doesn’t react beyond exhaling slightly louder. “Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey.” He punctuates each ‘hey’ with another poke to Jisung’s cheek. He does this for another minute, getting steadily more and more amused the longer Jisung goes without reacting, and finally shakes his shoulder instead. “Jisungieeee,” he whines. “Wake uuuuup.”

Much to his delight, Jisung unfolds from his position just enough to flail blindly in his direction. “Mm, hyung, stop that,” he mumbles, words barely intelligible. Then, for all intents and purposes, he goes back to sleep. 

Minho purses his lips at the audacity and feels no remorse in rolling off the couch, dropping directly onto Jisung with a giggle. Jisung wheezes dramatically when he gets the air squashed out of him but still shifts so he can clasp his hands behind Minho’s back. “No, you have to get up, you have a lecture in an hour.” He doesn’t bother mentioning the one that he’s currently missing, which started half an hour ago. He’ll curse himself for it later, but he can always just read the textbook to make up for the lost content.

“I can always just skip.” Jisung blinks up at him with slitted eyes, still looking like he could slip back into his dreams at any moment. “The lecture is recorded and no attendance is taken. No one would know.”

“Ooh, such a rebel,” Minho replies, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and laughing when Jisung just groans and turns away.

“It’s too early in the morning for your stupid eyebrows.”

Minho gasps. “How dare you insult my eyebrows?”

“How dare _you_ wiggle them at me like that?”

“I'll show you wiggling—” He attacks Jisung’s sides with his fingers, cackling when he shrieks and bearing down with his full weight when Jisung tries desperately to move away. “No one insults my eyebrows!”

“Oh my god, you’re so weird,” Jisung gasps out, still trying in vain to move Minho’s hands away from his body. “Fine, fine, your eyebrows are as pretty as the rest of you! Happy?”

Minho pauses, narrowing his eyes. “I sense that you’re not being completely sincere. Maybe more convincing is needed…?” He trails off, brandishing a hand threateningly.

“I swear to god, I will write you an entire poem dedicated to your eyebrows, just stop tickling me.” Satisfied, Minho lies back down on Jisung’s chest, chin tucked over Jisung’s shoulder and face uncomfortably close to the carpet. He can almost feel his own lungs compressing in protest. “Is there literally no way you can lie on me comfortably?” Jisung says incredulously, craning his neck sideways so he can look at Minho. 

“Deal with it,” Minho says breezily. 

They lie there for another minute or two, slowly slipping back into sleep with every passing moment of silence, before Minho suddenly jerks back awake and sits up directly on Jisung’s stomach, pointedly ignoring Jisung’s desperate gasping. “Oh, I forgot!” He reaches up and plucks the light from off the couch arm, presenting it to Jisung. “I found this.”

“Oh.” Jisung cocks his head at it, still blinking sleepily. “I’m kind of surprised it stuck around.”

“A lot of them stuck around after you fell asleep.” Minho pinches the light between his fingers and seeing if he can play with it like a ball of putty. It slips between his fingers like they’re wrongly polarized magnets, but he gets a childish glee from trying. “Kept me up half the night.” 

“Oh. Sorry about that.” Minho lifts his head at the sound of Jisung’s quiet voice, but Jisung just keeps staring at the light in Minho’s hands, a small frown marring his face. The magic dissipates easily under the force of Jisung’s light poke, bursting with a small _pop_ that Minho feels is more for his benefit than anything else. The other ones had just spontaneously stopped existing. 

“It’s…” He trails off when Jisung slides a hand to the nape of his neck, pulling Minho down so that their foreheads touch. Minho reflexively shuts his eyes at the proximity, making him hyper aware of the way Jisung’s breath ghosts over his lips. “Jisung…?”

Jisung merely hums in return. Barely a beat later, warmth is spreading through Minho, a mirror sensation to the feeling he gets when he drinks Jisung’s tea and what he’d felt from the magic last night. It’s disconcertingly refreshing, the way he feels instantly rejuvenated and awake, even after almost a year of knowing about Jisung’s magic. It falls somewhere between a cold glass of water on a summer day and the heat of a fireplace while it snows outside, slinking steadily towards his chest until his heart feels suffused with an energy that he can’t label as anything other than something inherently _Jisung._

Minho draws back reluctantly when Jisung lets go, fluttering his eyes open and staring down at the boy beneath him. “There, better?” Jisung asks with a shy smile. “Consider it an apology for having to deal with my wayward magic while I was passed out.”

“No problem,” Minho croaks weakly. His forehead still feels warm and his cheeks tingle from the ghost of Jisung’s breath. Someday, Minho will die because of one Han Jisung and he can’t even bring himself to be mad about it.

Oblivious to Minho’s internal screaming, Jisung pushes at Minho’s shoulders. “Up, up. As much as I enjoy the idea of lying on the floor the entire day, I need to pee.” 

Minho lies back down on the floor after Jisung putters off to the bathroom, scrolling mindlessly on social media and trying not to think about the way that Jisung had looked _soft,_ like the sun had taken his edges and smudged them, like a watercolor painting where all the colors ran together to form a coherent picture.

(He fails miserably.)

☼

In all honesty, Minho forgets. It was one morning in a series of mornings, tinged with exhaustion and maybe more than a little bit of wishful thinking. It was a figment of his imagination, a trick of the light, a million other things—

So Minho forgets.

Down the road, he’ll kick himself for not confronting Jisung about it sooner, for not questioning that flicker of gold in a cup of liquid sunshine. For now, though, he reads over the same line in his essay for the seventh time, letters blurring before his eyes, and groans. 

Leaning back in his desk chair, he stares out the window at the bottomless night sky, moon already high above the horizon. The sky has already lost the bare tint of light that it tenaciously holds on to after the sun descends, leaving the moon as the only source of light besides Minho’s desk light. (This is probably a hint that he should head to bed, but Minho has always held that sleep is for the weak.) “Why did I decide to do my literature requirement my junior year,” he complains to no one. “Why didn’t I just get it over with in my first year like all the other sensible people?”

“I think you’ve answered your own question, hyung,” Jisung answers dryly from where he’s curled up on his bed with his own computer. Minho thinks he might be working on something that has to do with spreadsheets but it’s equally likely that Jisung has just been watching Youtube videos for the past three hours. “Can’t have people thinking you’re sensible.”

“The _disrespect.”_

Jisung just sticks his tongue out at Minho with a cheeky grin. “Don’t blame the messenger.”

Minho takes this as his cue to officially give up any pretense of doing work and instead stumble his way over to Jisung’s bed and collapse into his lap, heedless of the precariously balanced laptop that Jisung hurriedly jerks out of Minho’s way and sets carefully onto his pillow. “Oh my god, why is your half of the room so much warmer than mine?” For whatever reason, it’s blissfully warm on Jisung’s bed, and Minho luxuriates in the feeling, burrowing into the soft covers and cuddling closer to Jisung. “This is amazing, I need to spend more time over here,” Minho mumbles into Jisung’s knee.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” Jisung says flatly, but the hand on Minho’s head betrays him, combing gently through his hair. It only takes a few seconds for the exhaustion to catch up to Minho and he feels his eyelids grow heavy with sleep, every muscle in his body relaxing. “Hyung, you should go to bed,” Jisung says softly, still petting him. “Haven’t you been working on that essay since eight? It’s almost two in the morning.”

“Is it really that late?” That explains why Minho’s so stiff, if he’s been sitting in that position for so many hours. “Still not finished, though.” He pouts up at Jisung, wrinkling his nose when Jisung pinches his cheek with a fond smile. 

“That’s what you get for going to dance practice instead of reading the assigned books.” 

“The _disrespect,”_ Minho emphasizes. “And what have you been doing for the past few hours, Mr. Do-the-assigned-reading, hm?” He stretches, craning his neck so he can see Jisung’s laptop screen. “‘One hour compilation of—’” he manages before Jisung hurriedly shuts his laptop and sets it on his desk.

“Do as I say and not as I do,” Jisung orders imperiously, the tips of his ears burning red. “I was just taking a break from my work.”

“Sure you were,” Minho replies indulgently. 

Jisung grabs his pillow in lieu of a reply, doing his best to smother Minho to death. “Slander!” he cries, while simultaneously doing his best to make sure Minho chokes on pillow fluff. “Lies and slander!” 

Minho scrabbles around for any possible ammunition that he could use in return, settling for attempting to mummify Jisung with his own blanket, flinging it around blindly like a matador while Jisung tries to brain him with the pillow. It’s absolutely ridiculous and thrilling and everything Minho needed after a whole day slaving over his homework. 

It takes a few minutes for Minho to finally trap one of Jisung’s hands, but it’s uphill for him from there. As soon as he manages to knock the pillow from Jisung’s free hand, Minho tosses it to the ground and bundles Jisung’s arms against his body, throwing his entire body weight onto the other boy to keep him pinned against the bed. “Hah!” he yells triumphantly, laughter still shaking through his body. “I win!”

“You may have conquered my body but never my spirit,” Jisung spits defiantly, glaring up at Minho regardless of the way his lips keep twitching into a smile. “I will never bow down to the blanket overlords.”

“Concede your defeat,” Minho commands, doing his best to look stern. 

“Never!” Minho promptly digs his forehead into Jisung’s sternum and shakes his head vigorously, reluctant to use his hands in case Jisung somehow wrestles himself out of the cocoon. It’s not the most efficient way he’s tickled Jisung before, but it gets the job done. “Nonononono, stop it,” Jisung croaks breathlessly, tears of mirth in his eyes. “This isn’t fair,” he wails, throwing his head back and narrowly missing the headboard. “I know you’re ticklish too, but you’re too damn sneaky for me to get you back.” 

Minho just grins back smugly. “This would be a good time for you to admit that Lee Minho is superior to you in all aspects, including tickle fights—” He dodges Jisung’s headbutt with a laugh. “Uh-uh, losers don’t get to attack the winners like that.” 

Jisung finally settles for rolling his eyes violently with a groan and flopping back onto the bed, pointedly staring up at the ceiling. As the seconds tick on, Minho can feel the sharpness leech out of his smile in time with the loosening of Jisung’s muscles as they both calm down. It’s unfair how _good_ Jisung looks like this, hair fanned out over the sheets and cheeks pink with frustration and exertion. Even the wetness still clinging to the tips of his eyelashes is somehow pretty and Minho’s just a weak college student with a gigantic crush on his roommate.

He collapses onto Jisung’s chest so he won’t have to keep looking at his face, propping his chin on his folded arms over the center of Jisung’s chest and exaggerating his sigh of contentment. “The winner demands cuddles as his victory prize.” 

“If you insist,” Jisung mutters begrudgingly. It’s painfully obvious how much of an act it is, though, when he wiggles a hand from out of the covers in order to run a hand through Minho’s hair. 

Minho’s eyes slip shut against his will. Basking in the warmth of Jisung’s bed, he lets the quiet calm fill his ears and the exhaustion seep out of his bones with every pass of Jisung’s fingers through his hair. It’s more than just the higher temperature on this side of the room—Jisung is his own radiator of heat, and the affection clear in the way he touches Minho makes something inside him shiver with happiness.

He turns his head to the side, trying to get more comfortable, when he spots Jisung’s mug of tea on the desk, a rare tea bag string dangling out the side and steam still curling lazily in the light of Minho’s lamp. He squints. “Hey, Jisung.”

“Yeah?” Jisung pauses in his petting, hand settling at the nape of Minho’s neck. Minho hopes he can’t feel the temperature under his collar skyrocket with the force of his blush when he feels Jisung’s fingers skimming the skin there.

“When was the last time you got out of this bed?” Jisung’s hand falls away when Minho pushes back up onto his hands so he can look Jisung in the eye and not be distracted by stray touches. 

Jisung rolls his eyes up at him with real exasperation this time. “Yes, I _know,_ I have bad habits, you don’t have to keep making passive aggressive comments. I'll go to bed soon, I promise. Besides, it’s not like you’re any better.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Minho struggles to put his thoughts into words. There are puzzle pieces that he needs to put together, something written in the golden warmth that trails Jisung like a spring breeze, but he doesn’t have a picture to guide him. “You… the tea… it’s hot?” he blurts out nonsensically.

Jisung’s brow furrows and he cocks his head to the side, hair sliding noisily against the sheets in the quiet of the dorm room. “What?”

“Your tea,” Minho says uselessly, gesturing weakly to the mug on the desk. “It’s steaming. But it’s been at least a couple of hours. I'm no physicist, but I'm pretty sure that’s not supposed to happen…” He trails off when Jisung’s eyes dart over and widen comically. 

“Oh _shit.”_ In a frenzy of movement, Jisung tries to sit up, forgetting that Minho is still hovering over him and accidentally knocking their heads together. 

_“Ow,”_ Minho grates out irritably, rubbing at his forehead, but quickly forgets it in favor of watching Jisung lunge at his desk, which fails since most of his limbs are still tangled up in his blanket. Minho sits back and watches with blatant amusement as Jisung practically falls out of his bed and wrenches his joints out of place. By the time Jisung wrests himself from his cloth bonds and staggers over to the desk, Minho is unapologetically collapsed on the bed, doubled over with hysterical laughter. “Oh my god, you’re a mess,” he wheezes. The way Jisung swings back to look at him, hair mussed and eyes wide, sets Minho off even more. “Please, no, stop it, my ribs hurt.” He clutches at his abdomen. “I think I have a cramp.”

“You’d deserve it,” Jisung mutters sullenly, dropping into his desk chair. “You’re an awful person. You got what was coming for you.”

Minho reaches for Jisung with a shaking hand, brushing the tears from his eyes with the other. “No, Jisungie, don’t be mad,” he warbles, voice trembling from the effort of holding in his laughter. “The way you tumbled out of bed was positively graceful.” It only takes a single glance at Jisung’s angry pout to make Minho break. 

“You can feel free to stop at any time now,” Jisung says flatly.

It takes another minute for Minho to collect himself and not feel like he’s going to asphyxiate just looking at Jisung’s face. “Okay, I'm sorry,” he soothes, starting to feel bad about the way Jisung is curled in on himself in his chair, arms folded and clearly unhappy with the situation. It’s enough to dump a bucket of ice down his spine and all hilarity drains from Minho’s frame. “I shouldn’t have kept laughing. There was clearly something wrong and I should’ve stopped to ask instead of making it worse.” He bites his lip, heart thundering in his chest for a different reason now. “I'm sorry.”

Jisung sighs, uncrossing his arms and wrapping them around his knees instead. Propping his chin up on his knees, he gives Minho a wry but genuine smile and Minho mentally breathes a sigh of relief. “Nah, I'm just overreacting again—” 

“No.” Minho nearly startles himself with his vehemence. “I _know_ you don’t like it when me or your other friends cross a line with our teasing, and I definitely did just now. Seriously. I should be the one apologizing.”

“You just did,” Jisung offers hesitantly, blinking owlishly. Pinpricks of guilt stab at Minho’s chest for how startled Jisung looks at the apology. “It’s fine, I promise—thanks? For apologizing?” Jisung’s voice lilts upwards with uncertainty, but Minho can tell he’s being truthful, even if he’s not sure of his own words. “I—thanks.”

“Yeah, sure,” Minho murmurs back. The awkwardness that fills the room is almost physically painful, and it only takes nine _long_ seconds before he breaks under the weight of the silence. “So, the tea?”

Jisung groans aggravatedly and Minho flinches from the sheer volume. “Dammit, I wish you’d forgotten about that.” He scrunches up his nose in Minho’s direction and Minho takes that as his cue to laugh weakly, glad for Jisung’s attempt at normalcy. 

“Well, I haven’t.” Minho squints in Jisung’s direction. “And there was that time that you were talking to your tea in the morning, too—don’t think I've forgotten about that either. If you keep this up, I'll think you’re the tea whisperer or something,” he jokes, chuckling a little and too aware of the fact that Jisung doesn’t join in.

“Well.” Jisung eyes him consideringly. His eyes glint in the light of Minho’s desk lamp and Minho _swears_ that he sees a spark of something golden in their depths, much more than just a trick of light. “How much do you believe in magic?”

☼

“Oh no,” Jisung says, aghast, looking out the window of their favorite bakery. Minho takes the briefest moment to admire the curve of Jisung’s cheek in the natural light of the window before tearing his eyes away to likewise glare at the sky. The crack of thunder just a few seconds ago had given way to fat drops of rain pouring out of the grey sky, splattering against the ground with a force that Minho can hear even from within the safety of the bakery. “Ugh, it’s going to be so humid tomorrow, and I think the forecast said that it’s going to be pretty warm too—it’s going to be so awful.” He turns back to the table, lips and nose scrunched in a frown that looks more cute than put out.

Minho doesn’t mind the rain, really. It used to remind him of wide puddles and muddy rain boots, legs soaked with water and hair plastered to his face, but now Minho calls to mind the smell of Hyunjin’s sweaters and a comforting blanket of noise played for hours until Jisung shoos him out of their apartment. A bout of rain makes the sun just that much brighter when it reappears.

He could definitely do without the humidity though.

“Do you think we should make a run for it?” Even as he suggests it, Jisung curls protectively around their box of cheesecake, like he wants to shield it from just the thought of stepping outside the air conditioned haven of the bakery. “Should we risk it?”

“It is just a couple minutes’ walk,” Minho offers, suppressing a laugh at the way Jisung’s face falls. “But we can probably stay here for a bit, see if the rain subsides.”

Jisung perks up immediately, knocking his foot against Minho’s in thanks. “Cheesecake?” he asks hopefully and Minho doesn’t bother hiding his laugh this time.

“I'll go buy us some coffee,” he agrees and picks up a pair of plates and utensils from the girl behind the counter (who greets him by name since Jisung is positively obsessed with the confections here and Minho is incapable of denying Jisung anything) while he’s at it. 

The cheesecake is Minho’s birthday gift to Jisung. His birthday falls during the week this year and Minho had managed to put up with an entire week of Jisung sulking because he wouldn’t be able to have a proper celebration due to classes before Minho caved and called the bakery to put in an advance order. He’d meant for the afternoon outing to be quick, since both of them have assignments to get back to, but with the rain… 

“Here you are.” He sets down the coffee and the plates on their tiny table with a flourish, delicately presenting Jisung with a fork. “One americano and one set of tools for getting cheesecake into your mouth as quickly as possible.”

“My hero.” Jisung swoons dramatically, back of his hand against his forehead and falling back against the window. “Whatever would I do without you?”

“Keel over from exhaustion and hunger, probably,” Minho answers matter-of-factly, giggling when Jisung yells at him with exaggerated anger.

They each help themselves to a slice of cheesecake. Minho enjoys the companionable silence as they chew, sneaking glances at Jisung between bites. For all that Jisung despises rainy weather, there’s something about him that fits perfectly into the grey setting, a hidden calm that can only be brought out by something that forces him to slow down. Minho loves Jisung’s exuberance, his shouts of joy and anger and the way he lives life like he wants to make the most of it, but he also holds unbound affection for when Jisung gets quiet at night, half-formed thoughts swirling around too quickly to escape, or when he’s pouring over his work, intensity like a physical presence.

Jisung catches his eye once when he doesn’t look away fast enough, so Minho crosses his eyes and sucks in his cheeks, expression quickly shifting to amusement when Jisung claps a hand to his mouth, his eyes disappearing with the force of his smile. “Shit, I'm gonna spew half-chewed cheesecake all over the table,” he mumbles around his hand.

Minho immediately recoils with disgust, bringing his plate with him and covering it with his hand. “Ew, no, don’t do that.”

“It’s your fault anyway,” Jisung garbles around his mouthful, staring Minho down even though his shoulders are still shaking with the force of his giggles. 

Minho can feel his own mouth trying to twitch into a smile. “I _bought_ you this cheesecake. Don’t you dare waste it like that,” he threatens.

“It’s my birthday.”

“It’s your birthday every year.”

“Does that mean you’re going to buy me cheesecake every year?”

Minho gives up on formulating a proper response (he doesn’t want to admit that the answer is _yes,_ he’d buy Jisung cheesecake every day if it’d put that smile on his face) in favor of raising a fist threateningly, not lowering it until Jisung swallows theatrically and even chases it down with a sip of coffee. 

“There, happy now? God, hyung, you’re so violent. Maybe you should look into anger management classes.” Jisung hurriedly dodges the punch Minho tries to throw across the table, cackling. “You’re really just proving my point, you know.”

“Disrespectful dongsaengs don’t get cheesecake on their birthdays,” Minho tries instead and is rewarded with the pleading look that Jisung immediately adopts. 

“Nooo, you’re my only hope for providing for my cheesecake obsession, hyung.” He snags one of Minho’s hands and clasps it between his, staring into Minho’s eyes with wide, mournful eyes. “Promise you’ll buy me cheesecake forever and ever?”

Minho hesitates for a split second, enough for Jisung’s expression to become more hopeful, before he reaches over and flicks Jisung on the forehead with his other hand. Jisung jerks back with a wounded sound, rubbing his forehead. “Is this your way of saying you’re using me for cheesecake? I'm insulted, frankly, that you think I'd be so easy.”

“Hey, you provide me with cheesecake and I provide you with magical tea and keep you company with my sparkling wit.” Jisung winks and shoots him finger guns, complete with a burst of golden sparkles and _god,_ he is such a _dork._

“What wit,” Minho returns dryly. His eyes quickly dart over to the counter out of habit, but he knows even before checking that the store clerk won’t be there. With the heavy rain, they’re the only customers in the shop, and she always returns to the kitchen if there isn’t anyone to serve. “The only thing I get out of this relationship is an empty wallet.”

“Don’t lie, I know you love my cuddles,” Jisung coos, framing his face cutely. 

“Still doesn’t solve my empty wallet,” Minho singsongs back. 

“Stop trying to blame it on me when we both know it’s your own spending habits—” Jisung cuts himself off when Minho raps him on the head with his knuckles.

“Just eat your goddamn cheesecake.” 

Jisung sticks his tongue out at him and returns to his slice with a happy hum, shoveling bites into his mouth before he’s finished chewing and puffing his cheeks up like a squirrel. It makes Minho’s insides feel pleasantly gooey even though he’s seen this exact scene at every eatery they’ve ever been to together because Jisung never quite managed to knock that particular childhood habit. He knows Jisung still feels self-conscious about his cheeks, the way the baby fat clings through the years, but Minho’s willing to defend Jisung’s devastatingly cute looks until his dying breath. He wants to cup Jisung’s face, press kisses to the apples of his cheeks, brush his fringe away from his eyes—

“Hyung?” 

Minho blinks. Jisung has his head tilted curiously, pointing at Minho’s half-eaten slice with his fork. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

He considers his cheesecake for a moment before pushing it over to Jisung. “Nah, you have it.” It _is_ really good cheesecake, but the way Jisung’s face lights up makes up for the loss. By now, Minho knows the tingle of Jisung’s magic well enough to know that the way his eyes sparkle in the lights of the bakery isn’t supernatural, but it never fails to make his breath catch. 

“Are you sure?” Jisung asks, fork already posed above Minho’s slice. 

“Go for it, birthday boy.” Minho lets out an amused huff at Jisung’s happy wiggle as he savors the bite. 

Jisung insists on being the one to bring their dirty dishes to the counter (“I do have _some_ manners, hyung.”), so Minho looks out at the city street as he waits. The rain has subsided somewhat, thankfully, slowing to the kind of light drizzle that makes you question whether you need a hood or umbrella, but heavy enough to make you uncomfortably damp by the time you’ve reached your destination. Minho has already started mentally tallying the number of towels they have in their apartment for the inevitable puddles that they’ll drip everywhere. 

“Jimin-ssi was nice enough to give me a bag!” Minho turns back in time for Jisung to brandish their box of cheesecake in his face, now encased in a new paper bag. “Ready?”

“Ready to leave you in my dust, maybe,” is all the warning Minho gives before dashing out the door, cackling wildly at Jisung’s shout of wordless outrage. The rain seems a lot heavier when he’s throwing himself into the droplets—within moments, his face is drenched and he has to blink water out of his eyes every two seconds, but he can hear Jisung’s footsteps pounding after him and he feels _exhilarated._

The run to their apartment passes in the blink of an eye and the splash of a puddle. It’s a quick walk and an even faster sprint from the bakery and it’s only a little over two minutes later that Minho collapses onto the stoop of their apartment complex, grateful for the small overhang that protects him from the rain. 

“Hah,” he wheezes triumphantly. He looks back to see where Jisung is and sends himself into hysterics watching Jisung furiously chase after him cradling a paper bag of cheesecake, doing his best not to jostle his package while still running as quickly as possible. “You look ridiculous!” he calls, a maniacal grin plastered to his face.

 _“You_ look ridiculous,” Jisung accuses, slowing down once he comes within shouting distance. He flops down onto the step next to Minho and gingerly sets the bag aside. “Plus you cheated.”

“I didn’t cheat, winning was just a higher priority for me than cheesecake.” Minho swipes a hand over his face, but his wet sleeve doesn’t do much more than push the water around. 

“In other words: you cheated,” Jisung deadpans.

“Spoken like a true loser,” Minho croons, draping himself over Jisung and pinching a cheek. “What do you owe me this time?”

Jisung heaves him off with a laugh, leaning away when Minho lunges for him again. “Absolutely nothing, you cheater. _And_ you got a head start, so really, I'm the winner here." 

There’s a mischievous glint to Jisung’s eye and Minho ducks his head just in time for Jisung to shake his head vigorously, splattering him with secondhand raindrops. Minho bites off a shout of rage and nearly tackles Jisung, but he pulls up short when Jisung snatches the soggy paper bag off the step and holds it up between them like a shield. 

“You wouldn’t hurt the poor, innocent cheesecake would you?” Jisung says, eyes glancing off the dark expression that’s made its way to Minho’s face. 

The impromptu cheesecake shield, however, doesn’t do anything to prevent Minho from reaching over gleefully and pulling at Jisung’s ear until he yelps in pain and sets down the bag in favor of clutching at his ear. “I'm sorry, what was that? Who’s the winner?” Minho crows smugly. 

“You you you you you,” Jisung babbles, sighing with relief with Minho lets go of his abused ear. “Jeez, hyung, you—are a perfect human being,” he finishes nervously when Minho twitches in his direction. 

“Thank you.” 

Out of the blue, Jisung groans and puts a hand on Minho’s cheek, pushing Minho’s face so that he’s looking out onto the street. His fingertips burn against Minho’s skin, even though they’re cool from the rain. “If we’d stayed another couple minutes at the bakery, we wouldn’t have gotten this drenched.”

Sure enough, the rain has lightened to a true sprinkle, barely a veil of mist in the air. The reminder has Minho shivering, aware of the way that his shirt clings to his skin and offers no protection against the occasional breeze that blows by. “We should probably head inside,” he says, starting to stand up, but he’s stopped by Jisung’s hand on his elbow.

“Wait, hyung, I want to show you something.” Jisung’s excitement is almost tangible. “Sit!”

So Minho sits back down, moving the mangled bag of cheesecake to the side and settling down close enough to Jisung that he can imagine the feeling of his body heat through both layers of their soaked clothes. “Is this better than being inside and in dry clothes?” There’s no heat to Minho’s voice, though, and he watches curiously as Jisung frowns at the moisture in the air before shrugging minutely.

“I used to do this all the time with Hyunjin, when we were kids,” Jisung explains, looking around to make sure that no one can see them before turning to Minho. “We stopped after he—” Jisung waves a hand around in the air, like that’s supposed to mean something to Minho— “but it’s barely a stretch of my magic, and it’s easier to do when there’s already so much water in the air.”

“Do what?”

The only answer he gets is a grin from Jisung before he grabs Minho’s hands and cups them between his own. “Don’t freak out, okay?” he whispers. It’s the least reassuring thing he could have possibly said, and Minho can feel his heartbeat thudding away against the press of Jisung’s palms. 

He looks at Jisung instead of where their hands are connected. He looks at Jisung’s hair, clumped into messy locks from the rain, and plastered to his forehead in a way that somehow looks completely different from when he’s fresh out of the shower, young and innocent. He looks at Jisung’s cheeks and the raindrops that are clustered there, glistening like crystalline freckles in the bare light that escapes through the clouds. He— 

“Look!” Minho snaps his gaze back to their hands and feels his breath catch.

There’s a tiny patch of rainbow sitting in the bowl of his hands, stretching from one side to the other as if Minho’s hands are the surface of the earth. He chokes up against his will, a wetness in his eyes that have nothing to do with the rain, because Jisung has somehow managed to give him a piece of the _sky,_ captured the colors that every child spends hours chasing and put them in _Minho’s_ hands. 

“I know it’s kind of stupid, ‘cause, I mean, it’s literally just light refracting through water droplets, but I thought it’d be nice, and I know you’ve been stressed about your schoolwork recently, so it’s the least I could do, but if you don’t like it, that’s okay too, we can just go back upstairs,” Jisung is rambling. Minho can’t even stop him because his breath is still caught in his throat, eyes glued to the _rainbow_ in his _hands._ “Hyunjin always thought it was really cool, but now that I think about it, he was, like, seven at the time and seven year olds think everything is really cool, and you’re _still_ not talking.”

Minho blinks dazedly and finally tears his eyes away from his hands so he can stare at Jisung instead. “Jisung,” he says softly, eyes catching Jisung’s own and holding them. “I love it. Thank you.”

Barely a moment later, Minho has to make the decision of whether the magic in his hands is more beautiful or the dazzling smile that spreads across Jisung’s face. 

(He already knows the answer.)

☼

Minho opens his eyes to a blinding ray of sunlight shining straight onto his face, unpleasantly warm. His left arm is numb and he feels a little like he’s suffocating under the weight of his covers, but there’s a body next to his, and when he shifts out of the beam of light, Jisung comes into focus. He’s pillowed on Minho’s arm, which explains why he can’t feel his fingers and why pins and needles had radiated up his arm when he moved. 

There are hazy memories of the night before, of watching movies on Jisung’s bed until they weren’t sure if it was night or morning, of slipping his laptop beneath his bed when Jisung dozed off against his shoulder, of laying him down gently on the mattress and being too tired to walk over and climb up to his own bunk and instead falling asleep next to Jisung. 

He digs his phone out from underneath the pillow with difficulty, careful not to jostle Jisung while reaching over his own shoulder. He groans quietly when he sees the time. _11:48,_ his phone tells him accusingly. He’s already missed the first twenty minutes of his lecture. Might as well miss the rest of it too. He lets his phone fall back onto the bed, instead curling back up next to Jisung and throwing a leg over his thigh.

“Stop moving around,” Jisung murmurs, cracking an eye open irritably. “I'm sleepy.”

“Sorry,” Minho whispers back. 

Jisung just slips his eye shut again, turning his head so his nose is pressed against the soft inner skin of Minho’s elbow. Every exhale tickles and Minho has to fight not to jump when it sends a tingle up his spine every few seconds. 

It’s only a minute or two before Jisung’s breaths become long and deep again. Minho envies his ability to fall back asleep—once Minho’s body has decided to wake up, there’s no chance he’s falling back to sleep again. He considers extracting his arm from underneath Jisung’s head and getting something to eat, but then Jisung shifts, moving his other hand so that it rests gently on Minho’s bicep, and Minho decides that lying in bed for another hour or two sounds comfortable enough. 

He stares at the wall over Jisung’s shoulder for a few minutes, tracing his eyes over the uneven bumps in the paint job of their dorm room, before he gives up and turns his attention back to Jisung. There’s something faintly amusing about the way Jisung’s face is squished to one side from the way it’s cushioned, lips puckered in a pout, and the sight makes Minho’s lips involuntarily quirk up. 

Like this, Minho has no trouble believing that Jisung is magical. There are days when he forgets, when he looks at Jisung over a table at the fried chicken place down the street from their dorm or sees him hunched over his laptop, propped up against the wall for hours on end, and sees nothing but another tired college student. And then there are days—bare moments, even—when Minho’s reminded that Jisung is _more._ Like when he’ll whisper to their drooping succulent every few weeks because neither of them can remember to water it and it’ll perk up like Jisung himself is the sun. Like when their single overhead light flickers because their upstairs neighbors party a little too hard over the weekends and Jisung will glare up at it until it settles. 

Jisung himself confesses one day, nose buried in a cup of tea, that he’s the least magical of all their friends. “I've got pretty much no ambient magic,” he says, shaking a sleeve like sparks will fall from them if he jostles them hard enough. “Which made it a real pain in the ass when I found out that Hyunjin practically oozes magical energy. Seriously, I swear it comes out of his pores or something. You’re lucky you can’t really sense it.”

Minho presses his lips together and throws his mind back to all the interactions that he’s had with Hyunjin, both as one of Jisung’s best friends and as Minho’s fellow dance major underclassman. There’s always _something_ that follows Hyunjin around. Something that, if Minho were a more spiritual person (and he supposes he has to be now, with everything that Jisung has told him), he would call an aura. It’s nothing that he can pinpoint, though, so he just shrugs and raises his eyebrows in Jisung’s direction. 

“Just imagine…” Jisung trails off. Minho wants to laugh at the overly serious expression that comes to Jisung’s face, but he refrains. “Just imagine if body heat could be felt from three feet away, but also somehow across a room.”

It’s a surprisingly helpful comparison. Minho feels like he can do that sometimes, with Jisung. (There was once, when Minho had been eating by himself in the dining hall, and he had somehow just _known,_ without even knowing what he knew. But when he‘d raised his head, Jisung was standing, back to Minho, looking for a place to sit.) Still, it’s bad enough that he has to deal with Hyunjin’s sweat in the practice room. He can’t imagine dealing with that all the time. “So?” 

_“So,”_ Jisung stresses. “I was a jealous kid, and Hyunjin could do the one thing I'd never be able to do.”

“Is the precursor to a supervillain origin story?” Minho asks, mouth curling up crookedly. “Do I need to be ready for the radioactive spider part of this story?”

“Hyuuuung,” Jisung whines, straightening from where he’s sprawled in his desk chair so he can swat at Minho’s shoulder. _“You’re_ the one who asked me about magic.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Minho says, not feeling very sorry. 

Jisung makes a face at him. “Anyway, long story short, my mom runs a potions ingredients shop and it turns out there’s more to magic than sheer magical power.”

Minho’s stunned into silence for a brief moment before he’s the one to swat at Jisung. “Are you kidding me?! Make the long story long!” 

“But it’s three in the morning and I have a class at ten,” Jisung says mournfully, like he didn't just drop that cliffhanger on Minho on purpose just to spite him. He droops lower in his seat until he’s staring up at the ceiling. “If I don’t go to sleep now, I'll fall asleep in class, and the professor really will yell at me this time.”

Minho scoffs, but he lets the issue go. “I'm tabling your supervillain origin story for later,” he warns before grabbing Jisung by the hand and dragging him over to Jisung’s bed, too lazy to make it up his ladder. The dorms only have singles, so it’s a tight squeeze, but they make it work (‘making it work’ consists mostly of Minho slowly sinking into the crack between the bed and the wall and Jisung sprawled more on top of him than not, but it’s—comfortable. Minho's foot might be freezing and his hand's going numb, but there's no place else he'd rather be). 

They’d woken up tangled together the next morning too, Minho recalls. Jisung had tripped over him trying to get out of bed and Minho remembers flipping him off before going straight back to sleep. In fact, with all the times that they’ve shared a bed together, Minho doesn’t remember ever really waking up next to Jisung and having the time to just _look._

He takes his stolen moment now to trace his eyes over the swell of Jisung’s cheekbone, cheeks starting to become rosy under the heat of the strip of light that falls perfectly on Jisung’s face, attracted to him like a magnet. He pauses on the delicate sweep of his eyelashes, collecting the sunshine the same way his messy hair does, turning them both a sparkling mahogany. Even Jisung’s nose is bizarrely perfect, round and cute and bracketed by small indentations where his glasses usually rest. 

Minho exhales quietly and closes his eyes so he’s not tempted to keep looking. Jisung looks different under this sunlight, quiet and asleep and trusting. He looks different when his face is illuminated by the light of storefronts, expression open with excitement and endless possibilities. He looks different when he’s rubbing his eyes tiredly in the library, tucked between tall stacks of books and exhausted frustration clear with every jagged movement. 

Jisung looks different with every new day, and Minho finds it in himself to fall in love all over again with each one.

☼

Han Jisung is magic.

When Minho first met Jisung, this meant heart tumbling in his chest, a catch of breath in his throat. It meant the softness of a blanket drawn over a prone form too exhausted to make it into pajamas, much less under the covers. It meant the quiet companionship in the ephemeral hours of the morning, facing away and eyes slipping shut, but taking comfort in each others’ presence nonetheless. It meant stolen glances over cartons of takeout and gifts of coffee and cake for the price of bright smiles and shining eyes. It meant streaks of sunshine on tan skin, the stretch of lips in a wide smile, the sprinkle of laughter through the air. 

Magic meant falling for Han Jisung with wide eyes and an open heart and not a hint of regret. 

Now, it means the golden warmth of a swallow of tea, runes etched into the posts of a bed, a greenhouse of herbs and flowers illuminated by will-o-wisps. It’s the smell of a summer day in Jisung’s hair, the mist of a sea breeze in Hyunjin’s clothes, the burrs on Seungmin’s socks. 

It’s Jisung etching indecipherable figures to the bottom of Minho’s bed in the winter but Minho squeezing in next to Jisung anyway, claiming that it’s not the same. It’s Minho’s first trip to Jisung’s hometown, stomach in knots with something akin to nervousness at the dried plants and flowers that litter the windowsills of Jisung’s mother’s shop. It’s a hug from a woman who shares Jisung’s unrestrained smile and the whisper of a promise that he’s always welcome. 

Magic means finding the unexpected in the familiar and the familiar in the unexpected and realizing that magic has always been Han Jisung. 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://littlenookofnonsense.tumblr.com/) | [twt](https://twitter.com/yersin_a) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/yersin_a)


End file.
